


Take It Off

by callervera



Series: Alpha Beta Chi AU [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Come Marking, Gags, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pole Dancing, Sexy Times, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2288552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callervera/pseuds/callervera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strippers crash the ABX Valentine's Day Party (strangely enough, it isn't Courfeyrac's fault). Enjolras reveals a weird phobia of exotic dancers and Grantaire helps him get over it... in the exact way you'd expect.</p><p>(It helps that the former president of ABX left a fully functional stripper pole in the presidential suite.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take It Off

**Author's Note:**

> This series takes place in the Liberté, Egalité, Fraternity/Alpha Beta Chi 'verse, but it hasn't happened in that story yet. I had to have a place to drop some of these little things I've been working on. Sorry it is out of order. Hope no one hates me.
> 
> If you haven't read [LEF.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1723619), you should! It would make me happy.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr.](http://icallervera.tumblr.com/)  
> Come say hi.
> 
> Also, this is my first attempt to write porn. So...

Valentine's Day

Enjolras sprints upstairs to his room on the third floor, turns the lock and leans heavily against the door, panting. He is not going back down to that party, he is absolutely not going to do that. He is going to stay locked upstairs in his room, reading his PolySci textbook and very much not going back downstairs. If he gets hungry, he’ll just eat the Valentine’s chocolates he was going to give to Grantaire. But he is absolutely, one-hundred percent, no-fucking way going back down to that party because… strippers.

He objected to the Valentine’s Day party in the first place, but his presidential objections had been unanimously overturned by the entire membership of the fraternity. They all seemed to think that participating in the “All-Panhellenic Valentine’s Day Love Around the World Mixer” would be a good idea. Enjolras thought it was both a stupid name and a stupid concept. It was a long, pretentious way of saying that people could go to all the fraternities and sororities on Greek Row (which would all have a different county for their theme. Enjolras couldn’t wait to see how offensive most of _those_ were going to be) and drink their faces off.

It also meant that the Alpha Beta Chi house would have to open their doors to all partygoers, and that made Enjolras nervous. He had a bad feeling that, with such easy access, Psi Mu was going to be up to something tonight. Montparnasse and company had been lying low lately. The Sunday night vandalism had stopped, they’d ceased throwing empty beer cans on the ABX lawn and Montparnasse had nodded almost politely when he’d passed Enjolras on campus the other day. They were being quiet. Too quiet.

Everyone had told him not to be so suspicious, to lighten up, to have fun for once. But Enjolras had ben right. _He’d been right_.

And Psi Mu had chosen the sneakiest attack on them all on this Valentine’s Day: they’d sent strippers.

The party had started off well enough. ABX had chosen France as their country and the Social Committee—that would be Courfeyrac, Jehan and Grantaire—had really outdone themselves. Jehan had draped the front and back yards as well as the downstairs area of the house with twinkle lights, Grantaire had found an enormously long piece of canvas and painted a huge mural of the Eiffel Tower at night that hung from the roof and reached down to the front porch. Courfeyrac had purchased a dozen cases of “the finest boxed wine that the local liquor store had to offer!” It was actually quite lovely.

Enjolras clutched his plastic wine glass full of cheap Chardonnay as he surveyed the party and smiled. The soft lighting and Edith Piaf music seemed to mellow out the normally insane Greek partygoers. The crowed parted briefly and he caught a glimpse of Grantaire across the room. Enjolras melted a little bit.

Grantaire had dressed up for the occasion: slim-cut navy three-piece suit, Kelly green tie, a pocket square. An actual, honest-to-God pocket square. It even appeared that he’d pulled a comb through his normally unkempt black curls. Enjolras had no desire to lose his hoodie-clad, paint-covered, scruffy boyfriend permanently, but if this suit-wearing version showed up every now and then, he wouldn’t mind. In fact, if this clean-cut Grantaire wanted to take him upstairs right now and fuck him into the mattress, Enjolras most definitely would not object. Not even the tiniest bit.

Grantaire catches his eye, shoots him a crooked grin and then taps on his watch. Enjolras rolls his eyes. He promised Grantaire that they’d stay and enjoy the party for at least an hour. It has definitely not been an hour.

He can wait. After he does his time at this party, Enjolras plans to get his boyfriend upstairs, drink nice champagne, give him his gifts and then do Valentine-y things. He isn’t positive what that last part entails, since this is his first Valentine’s Day as part of a couple, but he thinks they can wing it. Although it will be a damn shame to get Grantaire out of that suit.

 _Anyway_ , he thinks as he takes another sip of his wine and looks around at his faux-Paris, _this party isn’t actually so bad._

And that’s when everything goes straight to hell. The door bursts wide open and four young women carrying a portable boom box that’s blasting 1980’s hairband songs begin shedding their clothing in the living room. The next few minutes are a terrifying blur to Enjolras: fake breasts, oily tan skin, very tiny sparkly underwear and a smell that can only be described as suntan lotion mixed with lollipops mixed with meth. 

Enjolras immediately looks for Courfeyrac so he can blame him, but Courfeyrac comes rushing over to him instead. “This isn’t my fault, E. I swear to God. You know that if I’d gotten strippers, I would’ve gotten classier ladies. Or, you know, _dudes_."

“Where’s Enhorlas?” The blondest of the strippers yells, mangling his name as she reads it off of a card that she’s pulled out of… somewhere Enjolras doesn’t even want to begin to think about. “We’ve got a very special lap dance for him, courtesy of his friends at Psi Mu!”

Enjolras takes that as his cue to get the hell out of there. He takes the stairs two at a time and barricades himself in his room- his desk, the sofa, the chair. _Okay, okay. You’re fine here. Just breathe normally, in and out,_ Enjolras mentally talks himself down as sits in the wooden chair that he’s just added to the stack. His breathing has almost calmed down, when there is a knock on the door. “Who’s there?” he shrieks and he’s horrified to hear that his voice sounds like a soon-to-be-dead babysitter in a horror movie.

“E, are you okay?” Grantaire’s voice comes through the thick wooden door.

Enjolras calms down but only slightly. “Are you alone?”

“Of course I’m alone. Why would I have someone with me?" 

Enjolras crouches down and peeks through the crack under the door. Only one set of feet, and those feet are wearing Grantaire’s dress shoes. There’s no way that a stripper stole Grantaire’s dress shoes and learned to imitate his voice just to get into Enjolras’ room. Okay. Everything is going to be okay. He quickly moves the small stack of furniture that he’d pushed in front of the door, unfastens the lock and rushes Grantaire inside.

“Jesus, babe,” Grantaire says, eyebrows up as he watches Enjolras click the lock back into place and shove his makeshift barricade back up against the door. “I realize that a pack of strippers might not be the best thing to send to a mostly-gay fraternity, but it isn’t the end of the world. Aren’t you, like, supposed to be defending their rights to do whatever work they want? That seems like an argument you’d make.”

“No! No, I’m totally not trying to oppress them or judge them or, whatever, but I just… don’t like breasts--especially surgically augmented ones--in my personal space. I had a bad experience in high school once,” Enjolras realizes how stupid this sounds, but he doesn’t care. “And now I have a strict no stripper rule. No strippers. Ever.”

Grantaire laughs and crosses the room to a corner, where a brass pole stretches from the floor to the ceiling. “Interesting policy, coming from a man who has an actual stripper pole installed in his bedroom.”

“Don’t be mean. You know that’s leftover from the old ABX president.”

“I’ve always liked this,” Grantaire slides his hand up and down the brass pole, a small smile playing at one side of his mouth. “You wanna rethink that no stripper policy? Just for one night maybe?”

Enjolras eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

“Not one of the girls from downstairs, dork,” Grantaire shakes his head, crossing the room and taking Enjolras’ hand. “Just… trust me for a little bit, okay?”

“Okay?”

“Good boy. Now sit down on the bed and be patient.”

Enjolras does. He sits quietly on the bed, but his eyes track Grantaire, who walks over to the door-barricade, pulls the chair—wooden with a straight back and no armrests—off of the stack and sets in the middle of the floor, facing the embarrassing stripper pole. The next stop is the mini-fridge to retrieve the bottle of champagne that Enjolras had purchased for the two of them. Grantaire expertly pops the cork and pours out two glasses into the champagne flutes, which are sitting on a table next to a dozen roses and a heart-shaped box of chocolates. Grantaire can’t help but notice these and he shakes his head fondly.

“You are amazing, Enjolras,” he tells him, as he delivers the glass of champagne, “A _total_ cheeseball, but an amazing one. You are romantic and lovely and gorgeous and I adore you.”

 _Adore you._ A cautiously chosen phrase. They’ve been dancing around the L-word for the last two months. Grantaire is free with his verbal adoration, but he’s always careful not drop any “loves” when he’s lavishing praise on Enjolras. And Enjolras, in turn, keeps his in as well. He’s actually much less vocal about his affection than his boyfriend, but Enjolras shows him in other ways. At least, he hopes he does. Every time they walk to class holding hands, or curl up studying in front of the fire, or Enjolras packs one his badly made sandwiches for Grantaire’s lunch, or has coffee ready for him first thing in the morning is his way of saying “I love you.” It should be apparent by the way he looks at Grantaire that he is bat shit crazy in love with the man. But neither of them has actually said it. It’s okay. There’s no rush.

Grantaire leans over, slides his free hand into Enjolras’ blonde curls and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s sweet and soft and Enjolras leans in for more, but Grantaire pulls away.

“Wait. I need to give you your present.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a small blue box with a white bow on it.

Enjolras looks concerned for a moment. The box is too large to be a ring box, but it is the telltale blue of Tiffany & Co. Enjolras only knows this because Marius has been flashing a similar looking box around the house for the last week or so and yammering on about his perfect gift for his perfect girlfriend. Did Grantaire get him jewelry? Is Grantaire turning into Marius?

“Don’t give me that scared look,” Grantaire teases, “I just stole the box after Cosette opened her gift.”

Oh thank god. Enjolras lifts the lid and finds… black fabric. He gently pulls the dark mass out of the box and two raw silk scarves separate themselves, dangling softly from his fingers. “I.. don’t get it.”

“You will,” Grantaire is staring at him, his eyes unreadable. “This was actually plan A, but that fiasco downstairs made me want to change it up a little bit.”

“Please, R, no strippers,” Enjolras begs. “I can’t—“

Grantaire kneels in front of Enjolras, puts both hands on his knees and looks him square in the face. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes, but—“

“Then trust me right now?” Enjolras silently nods. Grantaire smiles and continues, “Great. But if you get uncomfortable and it’s too weird, do you remember the safe word?”

“Red.”

“Right. But, um,” Grantaire hesitates, as if he is unsure how to phrase the next part, “But if, uh, for some reason you can’t talk, we need to figure out a non-verbal safeword.”

“We …what?” Enjolras had imagined a lot of potential Valentine’s Day scenarios-- some unspeakably cheesy, a couple that were stereotypically romantic and one that involved a bearskin rug--but his mind hadn’t even wandered close to the path down which Grantaire currently seems to be heading.

Grantaire’s hands tighten on Enjolras’ thighs and he leans in closer. “I’m not going to do anything intense or crazy. I promise. But I want to have something established in case you get nervous or uncomfortable, okay?”

Enjolras nods again, but he doesn’t speak. He isn’t entirely sure what to say, although “no” isn’t one of his options. He’s let Grantaire take the lead in bed, and he’s never been led astray. His mouth goes a bit dry, thinking of earlier this week when they’d be sprawled out on this very bed, Grantaire’s hands digging into Enjolras’ thigh muscles as he held his legs apart, worked his tongue down Enjolras’ spine and finally delving wetly into…

Yeah, Enjolras was definitely content to let Grantaire do anything he wanted to him.

“Okay, so how about three taps?” Grantaire asks. “If you feel uncomfortable and you can’t talk, just tap three times with your foot or your hand and I’ll stop, okay?”

Enjolras nods yet again. Maybe it’s a good thing that they just agreed on a non-verbal safeword, because his normal proficiency with the English language is epically failing him right now.

“Excellent.” The last flickers of worry drop out of Grantaire’s eyes and are replaced by something darker and more playful. Enjolras feels his breathing quicken. Whenever Grantaire gets that look in his eyes, Enjolras invariably ends up a sweaty, fucked-out mess by the end of the night.

“Come here,” Grantaire slips his hand back into the curls at the nape of Enjolras’ neck and kisses him. Harder this time, his tongue roughly pushing its way into Enjolras mouth, exploring and dominating. Enjolras barely has time to start to reciprocate before he’s being pulled up off the bed.

Grantaire keeps his hand buried in Enjolras’ curls—pulling just softly enough to be on this side of painful-- as he leads him to the chair that he placed in the middle of the room, facing the pole. “Sit down,” he tells Enjolras brusquely, releasing his hair with a slight push. Enjolras sits.

The strips of dark silk still dangle from Grantaire’s hand until he tucks them in the chest pocket of Enjolras’ dark red dress shirt. “Hold on to these. We’re gonna need them later.”

“For what, Gr—?“ Enjolras begins to ask, but is interrupted by Grantaire’s finger pressing roughly against his lips.

“First rule for enjoying strippers: don’t think too hard. Sit back, enjoy the show and just _watch.”_ Grantaire turns his back to Enjolras and struts over to the ipod dock, a sultry swing to his hips that Enjolras hasn’t seen him do before. In fact, Enjolras is pretty sure Grantaire is cocking one hip and posing his ass as he faces away from Enjolras and fiddles with the ipod.

The posing is working. Grantaire’s ass looks amazing in the tight pair of black pants he’s wearing… which, now that Enjolras thinks about it, is kinda weird, because he was positive that Grantaire had been wearing a navy blue suit at the party.

“Did you change your pants?” Enjolras asks, as Grantaire turns back around to face him.

“Mm-hm,” Grantaire replies, kicking off his shoes and socks before slinking back to the center of the room. “That’s why it took me a couple of minutes to follow you up here. I had to borrow some from Courf.”

“From Courfeyrac? Why?” Enjolras asks, but any follow up questions will have to wait, because Grantaire’s music selection comes blaring through the speakers and the soulful bass of Marvin Gaye's _Let’s Get it On_ fills the room. Enjolras can only shake his head as Grantaire drops his chin and gazes back at him through his dark eyelashes, a smirk peeking out of one side of his mouth.

“I borrowed pants from Courf so that I could do this,” Grantaire replies and then bends over, grabs the black pants at the ankle and _pulls._ The pants tear away, exposing Grantaire’s lean, effortlessly muscular legs and his tight, tight pair of black boxer briefs. The whole thing is theatrically cheesy and Enjolras’ initial reaction was to laugh, but Grantaire’s underwear leave very little to the imagination and it is quite obvious that he’s excited about his impending striptease.

The urge to laugh completely dies away and is replaced by fierce desire to get out of the chair, cross the few steps to his half-naked boyfriend and feel if Grantaire’s cock is actually as hard as it looks. Enjolras rocks forward to do just that, but is stopped by a small shake of Grantaire’s head.

“Stay,” Grantaire orders and then tosses the tear-away pants at Enjolras. They land squarely in his lap and for the first time, Enjolras notices his own erection. Apparently, he’s enjoying this as much as Grantaire.

The stripper pole is only a few steps away, but Grantaire takes his sweet time slinking over there, eyes never leaving Enjolras’. His long, nimble fingers caress the knot on his green necktie and Enjolras is quite positive that Grantaire is taking longer than necessary to undo the knot. In fact, stroking the knot with his index finger and fingering the dimple in the tie is probably not the most effective way to take the damn thing off—and then Grantaire gives it a swift tug and the tie is off. It flies through the air and joins the pants in Enjolras’ lap.

Enjolras shifts in his chair, his pants uncomfortably tight now. He does not move. He is going to sit here like a good audience member and enjoy the show.

Grantaire, still wearing his white dress shirt, circles the pole and runs one hand around its circumference. His fingers trail along the brass, leaving the slightest smudge marks on the metal. A quick jump and one knee is locked around the pole and Grantaire hangs there, by one arm and one leg for a moment, head falling to the side, exposing the elegant line of his neck before it disappears into the collar of his shirt.

The shirt needs to go. Grantaire dismounts the pole and covers the few steps between himself and Enjolras in the blink of an eye, straddling Enjolras’ legs with his own and sinking down onto his lap. He begins to undo the buttons on his shirt and Enjolras reaches up to be helpful, but is swatted away by a quick slap of Grantaire’s hand.

“Second rule: no touching,” Grantaire’s voice is low and husky and it goes straight to Enjolras dick. “You don’t get a second warning.”

The shirt is unbuttoned, removed, dropped to the ground. Grantaire grinds down on Enjolras’ lap, creating agonizingly gorgeous friction against Enjolras’ painfully hard cock for a brief moment, and then he’s gone. Across the room in a few lightning fast steps and then halfway up the pole, his legs straddling it and locked at the ankles. One arm is stretched over his head and Grantaire leans his dark curls against it as he nuzzles his face against the hard metal.

There is the smallest of movement as Grantaire slightly bucks his hips, grinding against the brass of the pole as he hangs there. His eyes are locked onto Enjolras and Grantaire bites his lip slightly.

Enjolras has never been jealous of an inanimate object before, but at this moment he would give anything in the world to trade places with that pole. To have Grantaire’s lithe limbs wrapped around his body, to feel that cock frotting against his own. His breathing is coming faster now, shallower, and the discomfort in his crotch is becoming unbearable. Enjolras moves to undo his fly, but Grantaire shakes his head. Bastard.

Bastard who is insanely flexible, it turns out. Grantaire releases his hands and practically bends in half as his legs hug the pole and he drops his head back. It almost touches the ground. Enjolras has seen Grantaire like this before a few times: when he’s been on top of Enjolras, riding him as he comes; his dark head thrown back in ecstasy as he releases completely, shouting expletives mixed with Enjolras’ name.

Fuck. This is sexier than Enjolras had thought it could be. Much, much sexier. His breathing deepens and slows as he watches Grantaire move on the pole. Riding it, falling, bending in ways that Enjolras didn’t know he could bend. Sometimes his whole body is connected to the brass, wrapping around the hard pole. Sometimes he hangs by an arm, a leg. Once he was upside down and dropped so quickly that Enjolras was positive he’d smash his head on the floor, but Grantaire had stopped himself.

No matter what he did on the pole, Grantaire’s eyes never left Enjolras’ face. They were locked there, deep and dark, playful and teasing. Enjolras had no idea what his own face looked like as he watched his boyfriend acrobatically make love to a brass pole, but he could only assume that he looked like a hungry, smitten idiot.

The song on the ipod shifts. Barry White is done and the synthetic beats of a song that Enjolras vaguely recognizes thrum across the room. He doesn’t have time to think about to hard about the music, though, because Grantaire has abandoned the pole and moves back into place above Enjolras, standing with his legs on either side of Enjolras, pinning them together. The bulge in Grantaire’s briefs—the smallest patch of wetness seeping through the cotton at the tip of his cock-- is right in Enjolras’ eye-line and he can’t resist the urge to reach up and caress it.

 _You let me violate you,_ the singer rasps from the ipod, _You let me desecrate you…_

His hand has lifted and is close, so close, to Grantaire’s cock, but a firm hand snaps down and wraps around Enjolras’ wrist. He looks up and sees Grantaire staring down at him, something stirring in the back of his green eyes. “I said no touching,” Grantaire whispers, his voice thick.

“I thought—“ Enjolras begins to protest, but Grantaire drags his wrist down to his side, pressing it against the wooden leg of the chair.

“You already had your warning,” Grantaire informs him as he plucks one of the black silk scarves out of Enjolras’ chest pocket and deftly ties his wrist to the chair. He moves around to the other side and repeats the motion. Enjolras struggles briefly, testing his bindings and finding very little give. Apparently, silk is stronger than it looks.

The chorus of the song kicks in and Enjolras finally recognizes it.

_… Help me get away from myself…I wanna fuck you like an animal… I wanna feel you from the inside…_

Oh, for fucks sake.

Grantaire bats the rest of his discarded clothing out of Enjolras’ lap and straddles him again, grinding his hips down on Enjolras’ cock, eliciting a strangled cry.

“Oh god, R, fuck,” Enjolras almost sobs. He’s shocked at the intensity in his voice. “I’m so hard.”

“Shh,” Grantaire places the pad of his thumb roughly over Enjolras’ lips and Enjolras immediately opens his mouth to take it. Teeth playing over skin and nail, wet lips sucking the digit in as far as possible. “I’m going to take care of that. In just a minute.” He grinds down again and Enjolras groans in protestation, releasing Grantaire’s thumb.

“That’s not fair,” Enjolras is close to whining now. “You said no touching. You’re touching me.”

“I’m the dancer,” Grantaire glares. “I’m allowed to do whatever I want. And right now, I’m making up a new rule: no talking. You don’t get another warning.”

“But I—“

“You are terrible at following rules, E, you know that, right?” Grantaire fingers are unknotting Enjolras’ tie. He gets it loose and then slides it between Enjolras’ teeth, quickly tying it behind his head. A few golden curls get caught up in the sloppy knot. “You brought this on yourself, boyfriend.”

Enjolras’ blue eyes are wide as he stares unbelieving at Grantaire. He isn’t sure if he is shocked or angry or just hella turned-on but, even if Enjolras knew what his feelings were, he couldn’t express them, because he had a _fucking gag in his mouth._

Grantaire dips his mouth down to Enjolras’ ear for a brief moment, his warm breath ghosting over the sensitive skin. “If this is too much, you can safeword out. Tap your foot three times?”

Enjolras does not move.

The lack of response is enough to encourage Grantaire, who continues slowly rubbing his cock against Enjolras’ as his hands work open the buttons on Enjolras’ dress shirt. Grantaire dips his head down to lick a wet stripe across Enjolras’ pale, smooth chest. Enjolras ducks his chin down, trying to get a good look at what Grantaire is doing down there, and then snaps back immediately as Grantaire takes one of his nipples into his mouth. Fuck.

The wetness combined with the fierceness of Grantaire’s sharp teeth on his sensitive skin is delicious agony. Enjolras moans against his gag. Grantaire bites down harder and then releases. Enjolras has a moment to process both relief and disappointment and then Grantaire repeats himself on the other nipple. Enjolras screams against the gag.

That was so fucking good and hurt beautifully.

Both nipples are wet and hard, scraping against the fabric of his shirt as Grantaire abandons them and moves up his neck, biting into the juncture where neck meets shoulder. Enjolras is so focused on the sting as Grantaire bites kisses into his soft skin that he almost misses the hands that are cleverly undoing his belt. Almost.

“Uhhuh,” Enjolras is able to grunt through the gag. He nods his head and desperately bucks his hips in encouragement. His poor neglected cock is painfully hard and a damp patch of pre-come has definitely soaked into his underwear, if not his actual pants.

Grantaire pulls back off his neck and grins down at him as he palms Enjolras cock through his trousers. “Looks like you enjoyed the show,” he purrs as he undoes the button and zipper, slipping one hand into fly. Grantaire doesn’t waste anytime. His hand finds the waistband of Enjolras’ briefs and dips inside, fist wrapping around the cock trapped inside. Enjolras’ head drops back in relief. The roughness of Grantaire’s hand around the velvet soft skin of his shaft is exactly what he needed.

The strokes continue for a moment and then Grantaire’s hand is gone. Enjolras lifts his head and looks down at him, eyes wide, pupils blown wide with arousal. _What the fuck?_

Grantaire does not reply, just returns his teeth to one of Enjolras’ tender nipples, biting down particularly hard, as if in retaliation for Enjolras’ silent complaint. But his hands grasp the waist of both Enjolras’ pants and underwear and Grantaire manages to pull them both down over his hips even as he nips at the hard little nipple.

“You’ve been a fantastic audience,” Grantaire says into Enjolras’ chest, still licking a damp patch around his areola. He leans back and looks up at Enjolras, whose face is flushed and breath is being ripped from his chest in ragged gulps. “One last rule. Rule number three: if this next thing happens in a strip club, you should definitely complain to management.”

And then Grantaire’s clever mouth is on Enjolras’ cock, swallowing him down with one swift motion. Enjolras throws his head back and even the gag can’t contain his scream. He’s close, so very close and has been for a long, long time. Enjolras brings his head back up and glances down. Grantaire’s eyes are on him, hungry and dark. They don’t leave Enjolras’ eyes as he sucks him down, caressing the thick shaft with his tongue. Occasionally stopping at the tip to wrap his lips around the tender head of Enjolras’ cock. Slipping the tip of his tongue into the small slit there.

Grantaire begins to pick up his pace, finding a rhythm in time with Enjolras’ increasingly ragged breathing. Enjolras feels a desperate warmth begin to knot deep inside of him and he thrusts his hips, driving his cock further into Grantaire’s mouth. Grantaire gets the hint and _sucks_ , hard, hollowing his cheeks around Enjolras’ shaft, pulling the length of his cock all the way into his warm, wet mouth until it hits the back of his throat.

And Enjolras is done. He moans brokenly against the gag as he comes deep in Grantaire’s throat. His fists wrap around the legs of the chair as his hips jut up one last time. Grantaire grabs him there, on his hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and anchors his mouth on Enjolras cock, sucking down all of him until he is spent.

Enjolras shudders at the end, slumping against the hard wooden back of his chair. Grantaire finally releases him, letting Enjolras softening cock slip out of his mouth, and slides up to curl his head up on Enjolras’ shoulder.

Enjolras moans in contentment and then changes it to a whine as he feels Grantaire’s own erection, still rock hard, pressing against his side. Grantaire pulls back to look at him and Enjolras flicks his eyes down towards the noticeable bulge in Grantaire’s crotch.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of myself,” Grantaire assures him and Enjolras glares at him. His lips tighten around the gag, as if asking Grantaire to free his mouth and let him return the favor. “Nope. Shows not over yet.”

Grantaire hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his own boxer briefs and slides them off, his cock immediately springing to attention, straining upwards. The tip glistens with pre-come and Enjolras can only imagine how good it would taste if he could just take it into his own mouth and test it with his tongue. But he’s still gagged and Grantaire doesn’t seem to have any inclination to free his mouth.

Grantaire seems to be a mind reader, because he shakes his head and simply says, “Watch me.” One hand snakes around the back of Enjolras’ head and grasps his golden curls and the other swiftly works its way up and down Grantaire’s shaft. He’s close and he obviously knows how to get himself off quickly—his fist twists as it approaches the tip—and Enjolras can’t take his eyes off.

“Enjolras, I’m close,” Grantaire moans from above him. “I want, I want to come on you. Please can I come on you?”

Enjolras nods, insanely turned on, even in his post-orgasmic haze. He and Grantaire are no strangers to getting each other’s cum all over in all their various methods of fucking, but this is the first time Grantaire’s asked permission to do it. To mark him. To claim him.

Grantaire’s fist shifts his rhythm, speeding it up, aiming himself at Enjolras’ chest. _Fuck it,_ Enjolras thinks and brings his head forward, nuzzling the tip of Grantaire’s cock with his cheek.

Grantaire explodes, a strangled scream wrapped around Enjolras’ name escaping his lips as he spends all over his boyfriend. White, pearlescent ropes mark Enjolras’ chest, his face, his hair. Grantaire has a few last rough breaths as he rides out his orgasm, letting the last of himself leak onto Enjolras’ shoulder, and then he collapses into Enjolras’ lap, head cradled onto his shoulder.

“Oh my god, Enjolras,” Grantaire babbles into the warm skin. “You are so beautiful, I just… I can’t… oh my god.” Post-orgasmic Grantaire is not the most articulate Grantaire. “Thank you. Thank. You.”

They stay like that for a brief moment and then Grantaire pulls himself off Enjolras’ lap and unties his arms and removes the tie-gag from his mouth. Enjolras’ first act upon being untied is to grab his boyfriend by the scruff of his neck and pull him in for a fierce kiss.

Enjolras can taste himself on Grantaire’s lips and tongue. He dives in deeper. The wet slide of their tongues together elicits a groan from Grantaire.

“So, I feel like you may have reevaluated your opinion on strippers?” Grantaire asks, pulling back from Enjolras.

“Maybe,” Enjolras answers, standing up and letting his loose pants and underwear finish their descent to the ground. “As long the stripper in question happens to be my insanely hot, insanely dorky, shockingly coordinated boyfriend.”

Enjolras grabs Grantaire by the hand and tugs him in the direction of the bathroom. Thank god the president gets his own private suite. He’d hate to have to venture into the shared bathroom on the second floor in this state.

“Dorky, huh?” Grantaire teases as Enjolras turns the shower on, letting it run for a moment to get the hot water going. “Big words coming from a grown ass man who barricaded himself his room because he was scared of boobs.”

“Yes, dorky, Grantaire.” Enjolras steps under the hot water and pulls Grantaire in with him. “You are a giant dork.”

“And you looooooooove me,” Grantaire sing-songs back at him. Then freezes. “Sorry, E. I didn’t mean to, you know. Put that on you. Right now. Fuck.”

The spray of water is glistening on Grantaire’s skin, sending droplets down his shoulders and arms. A small river of water pours off of his right collarbone, sending a steady stream down his right arm, across the big gold and red sunburst tattoo on Grantaire’s bicep. The one that it had taken Enjolras forever to realize meant _him._ And when he realized it, it was obvious that the tattoo was for him. How could he ever _not_ have seen it?

It was the same thing now. Grantaire had said it and it was obvious. How could Enjolras have not realized that he felt this way? How has he gone this long without saying it?

“I do, you know,” Enjolras says finally, leaning forward to touch his dripping forehead to Grantaire’s. “I love you.”

Grantaire wraps his arms around Enjolras, pulling him tight against him under the warm, steaming shower spray. “I love you, too.”

Enjolras smiles against Grantaire’s damp curls. If this is what “Valentine-y Things” means, he could probably get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing against strippers.
> 
> Let's just all just remember that Montparnasse hired these particular girls so... chances are good that they aren't the classiest of exotic dancers.


End file.
